Hello everybody! Before I say anything, I have to say thank you a thousand times to all of you who have left me reviews and given me feedback about the last chapter. Every one of you have supported me and encouraged me so much, and I am so joyed and grateful. All of you have made my day, my week! This really means so much to me. I cannot thank you enough!
As for updates (Thank you to those who helped me with this decision, which is kind of a compromise), I will do my very best to up date more often but still keeping the chapters a decent length. I will try to update a least once a week, hopefully more. Thank you to all for understanding!
So, here is the next chapter. Here's another twist for you. I know at this point, you are going to be very confused about this, but I promise it will be explained in the near future. I hope you enjoy, and thank you again!
CHAPTER XIII
Freedom to Breathe
"A shower fell in the night and now dark clouds drift across the sky, occasionally sprinkling a fine film of rain.
"I stand under an apple-tree in blossom and I breathe. Not only the apple-tree but the grass round it glistens with moisture; words cannot describe the sweet fragrance that pervades the air. Inhaling as deeply as I can, the aroma invades my whole being; I breathe with my eyes open, I breathe with my eyes closed—I cannot say which gives me the greater pleasure.
"This, I believe is the single most precious freedom that prison takes away from us: the freedom to breathe freely, as I can now. No food on earth, no wine, not even a woman's kiss is sweeter to me than this air steeped in the fragrance of flower, of moisture and freshness."
("Freedom to Breathe" by Alexander Solzhenitsyn).
...
He fell to his knees upon the earth. His head fell forward and his lips brushed the ground. His bare hands and feet touched the cold pavement. It was wet, and it was a chill upon his skin. Even beneath his trousers, the harsh stone tore at his knees. It scrapped his flesh, but he did not notice. He did not feel the burn or the pain.
He drew in a deep breath. The air smelled of watery mist. It was fresh, and clean, and pure. To breathe it into his lungs was to taste the waters from the Fountain of Youth or to eat the fruit from the Tree of Life. He filled his lungs once more with this divinity, closing his eyes and feeling it as it entered his body and filled his chest to the brim. He breathed in the world.
Such a gift, such a blessing, it is to breathe. It is a precious bliss that is so often overlooked. Only once one has been deprived of it for some time can he see and feel its full glory. Breathing is everything. Breathing is living. It is revival. It is joy. Breathing is freedom.
He consumed the breath of freedom, and his soul began to sore, to sing. It seemed at this moment that he could take wings and fly. Fly like the eagles through the skies or the angels through the heavens. Take wings and fly away. Far away.
He lifted his head and looked ahead of him. How strange it was to look ahead. For so long, he was only looking backward, yearning for what once was and dreading what was to come. Now he looked ahead. Yet he could not see through the fog.
"Get up," a harsh voice commanded above him. A heavy boot kicked him in the ribs.
He got up slowly. His body was stiff and weak. It protested at that pain. He made it to his feet.
As they sent him on his way, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply again, allowing the purity of freedom to fill his aching lungs. He was not certain he had ever experienced any pleasure quite so beautiful.
...
It was March 12, 1836. Winter was ending. It had been cold and harsh, but now at last it had reached its last days. Spring was at hand. Snow and ice were no longer falling from the grey sky and encasing the earth in a frozen sheath. Now it was rain.
It was still cold in Paris, but the rain came as if sent from Heaven to melt away the bitterness of such a bleak winter. It fell to the earth steadily, peacefully. The water touched the ice, the snow; and the fridges crystals, smooth and perfect like tiny sculptures of glass cut carefully and precisely by the hand of God, faded and became water, as well. The white shawl that clothed the earth slipped away and disappeared. In place of the snow, thin rivers rushed down the pavement and gathered in shallow pools at the ends of streets. Streams ran down buildings, windowpanes, and rooftops, dripped off of gutters and spilled over the edges of buildings. One passing through the city heard all around them the music of water singing gently and peacefully as it fell to the ground, chasing away the cold and bring forth new life. The enchanting melody of the falling rain, a lovely trickle like a moving stream, and a constant song like a calm and beautiful waterfall.
With the rain came fog. Raindrops hit the ground, and rolling clouds of steam and mist arose like ghosts out from the earth. Fog embraced the entire city. Like the veil of a bride, it hung over Paris and concealed it. Walking through the city was like walking along a narrow cove at the edge of the sea, where the air itself is a dense mist that tastes of salt and is filled of water. One could scarcely see across a street, for the fog was so thick. Two men standing only a few paces apart would appear to one another dark silhouettes, images of men with no faces.
Amongst the watery choir, another sound was heard. A steady and strong beating, like that of a heart. A quiet reverberation, like a wagon bumping along a road. This, however, was hoof-beats as two horses traveled down the murky city of Paris and, pulling behind them, an empty carriage that waited to be claimed by travelers. Two men sat in the front, each of them holding the reins of one horse. It was the accord between these two young gentlemen, who each contributed a fair amount of money to purchases the coach and horses some years ago, that they drive the carriage together, and at the end of the day they split their profits evenly. Today was not promising. The dawn was growing old, and still no passenger boarded their coach for a ride. In fact, no passenger crossed their path at all. It seemed the dense fog was a barrier, trapping people inside the protection of their homes. The streets were empty.
"Bloody hell," one of the men muttered under his breath to the other. "I cannot see anything through this blasted fog!"
"What does it matter?" the next grumbled in reply. "There is no one out here. No one wants to travel on a bleak day like this."
"Wait a moment... Look there!" The man leaned forward and squinted his eyes in attempt to see through the gloom and make out the figure within it. "I think there is a man ahead... Yes, look there!" Indeed, there was someone standing in the road before them. Through the fog, it was impossible to guess who the man was, as he was no more than a dark form materializing from out of the smoky vapor. Yet there was certainly a person ahead and vigorously waving his arms for the carriage to halt.
"He is waving to us."
"Well, it is about time! Pull over."
As they steered their coach to the side of the road and the horses began to slow, one turned to the other and muttered in a low voice, "Maybe we should charge extra to travel in this awful weather. I doubt we will have another passenger any time soon."
His friend nodded. "Eight sous instead of six. That seems a fair price."
Returning the nod, the man closest to the stranger turned his head to greet him. The carriage had not yet come to a complete stop, but the newcomer was already approaching the coach and with great speed. He emerged swiftly from the obscurity, and his face was unveiled. The coach driver nearly shrieked in terror. The man beside him let out a horrorstruck whimper. "The Devil!" he cried under his thin breath. "That is no man!"
In truth, the being before them was more beast than man. It had the figure of a man—arms, legs, a body, a head—but there is where the resemblance ended. The thing was as something wicked and evil crawled out of the flaming pit of hell. It was the fateful visitation of a demon upon the earth. A fallen angel, disfigured and deformed by its sin and corruption. The servant of the Devil. The spawn of Satan.
Their hearts were overcome with fright, and it was the immediately reflex of these two men to command their horses into action and flee. It was too late. The man—the monster—was already upon them. He came straight to the door and peered in at them. While part of their minds commanded them to think rationally and maintain their composure, the other part screamed madly in their heads that this creature was about to come at them, pounce on them like a starved beast, and devour them, kill them with a blade hidden upon his persons, strangle them with his bare hands, or rip out their throats with his teeth. Instead, however, the stranger pulled open the carriage door and began to get in.
It turned out this being spoke like a man as well, and he knew the French language. He spoke softly like a man unwilling to let his identity be known and urgently like a man being pursued, "The Gorbeau Building. Boulevard de l'Hopital."
"Oi! Just a minute!" the closest driver shouted suddenly, fright but even greater anger ringing out in his cry. "Back up! Get away from my carriage!"
This exclamation seemed to take the stranger by surprise. He frowned and turned his face—what somehow resembled a face, what might have once been a face—toward the drivers. His hand still grasping the open door, he hesitated.
"Back away!" the man thundered again with all of the fury he could manage. It is often the resort of a man afraid to attempt to appear more intimidating than that which frightens him. "That is an order!"
The creature hesitated only a moment longer. He slowly released the door with his hand. The driver let out an anxious sigh. The beast stepped backward a few paces, moving away from the carriage as he was ordered. "Is there a problem, messieurs?" he questioned the drivers. Under the gaze of a beast so frightful, so hideous, they each felt their hearts shutter and their souls recoil from a chill. They felt they were under the eyes of the Devil, himself. Perhaps this was Satan in disguise, trying to trick them, trying to deceive them. They would be certain to have no business with the Devil.
"Let me see your papers," the same man snarled as if disgusted by what he saw before him.
The demon did not oblige. He did not even flinch. His expression remained hard and impenetrable, just like his stone eyes. He responded rigidly, "Why?"
"Give me your papers!" the driver demanded again, even louder and harsher this time. "If you hope to board this carriage, let me see your papers now!"
No emotion, no thought, could be seen passing through this being's mind. He was silent. "Very well," he muttered at last. He reached into his pocket, and both drivers flinched, expecting him to withdraw a knife or weapon. He did not. Rather he produced the folded yellow papers of identification that he had been asked for, and he held them out to the driver.
The man snatched them quickly, the way a mouse might quickly snatch a crumb of food and immediately retreat back into the protection of his hiding place. He eyed the stranger distrustfully as he unfolded the papers. The man—it seemed much more evident now that this was, in fact, a man, but a man of the most wretched and hateful sorts—made no motion. He merely stood there, still and silent, like a daunting statue in a graveyard unflinching in the presence of the dead, and waited for the driver to address him. The driver hesitantly looked down at the papers in his hand, reluctant to take his eyes off the brute before him. Perhaps this creature was like a lion, and he would strike the moment eye contact was lost. He only looked at documents for a few seconds before his face contorted in alarm and revulsion. Raising his eyes once more, he thrust the papers back at the stranger, who caught them against his revealed chest.
"Be on your way," the driver snapped curtly. "We cannot help you." Without a moment's pause, he gave his horses the order to move, and they rushed into action. The animals stopped abruptly, rearing, kicking their hooves, crying out in fright. The drivers were startled as well. The traveler had stepped out in front of the beasts, fearless of the consequences, and caused them to halt.
"Why not!?" the man shouted from where he stood before the horses, before even the beasts stopped panicking. "I have money; I can pay you! You have no reason to reject me."
The men in the carriage stared at this creature at a loss, stocked by his boldness and his daringness, and left consequently unsure how to respond. "Get out of the way!" one of the men finally cried. "If you do not move, the horses will run you over!"
"Messieurs…" The change in the stranger's voice was vivid. He now came forward desperate and pleading. He stepped out of the horses' ways but came closer to the carriage, moving along the side of the animals until he was within arm's reach of the men steering them. They stiffened as he approached. "Messieurs, please," he begged them. "I can pay you… twice as much as the price. Please, messieurs, I am in a hurry. This is extremely important."
The drivers exchanged swift glances as this man offered them twice the price, yet they remained skeptical. "Really?" one man said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the stranger. "And why is that? Are you running from someone?" He could not have made clearer the identity of this someone he spoke of: the police.
The stranger shook his head. "Trying to find someone."
"Who?"
The man did not answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket—the drivers stiffened once again—and pulled out a handful of paper money. He fumbled with it for a moment before he stuffed much of it back into his pocket and held the rest of it out to the men driving the coach. He met their eyes and said flatly, "Five francs."
Their hard expressions faltered and were hastily replaced by astonishment. Five francs for a ride across Paris! This man must have been mad, out of his mind! Who on earth would pay such a high price for so little!? As the answer of the question dawned on their minds, their hearts darkened once more: A man—a convict—on the run.
One of the men shook his head and met the stranger's eyes with disgust. "We cannot help you," he repeated himself. "We do not want your money." We do not want anything from the likes of you. We do not even want something you have touched! It might have been dirtied and infected by your filthy hands!
With that, they commanded their horses to move on, and the carriage pulled ahead. It started forward and disappeared into the fog. In short time, even the muffled sound of hoofs against the stone pavement faded away. The stranger was left standing in the street alone.
He had no choice but to go by foot. So he did. He started off moving quickly, a shadow gliding smoothly through the gloom, unnoticed by the world of mortals. As each minute passed, however, his pace became slower. His body protested with ever step. Pain is a tool designed to inform a man when something is damaging his body or health, thus a man will save himself from whatever assaults him. This man did not stop despite the pain. He kept going. The pain was strong, but his will was stronger. So he did not stop.
It was a long and painful journey, but in the end he made it. He watched the ruined building materialize out of the fog, and he ran to it. His heart was pounding with anxiety and joy, and he could not, in this moment, feel the pain. Without knocking, he crashed through the door and went inside. The interior did not look different than he remembered it. The place was perhaps a bit dirtier, the floor was perhaps a bit dustier, the walls a bit more stained, the stairs a bit more creaky, the doors a bit more broken. Little had changed. This gave him great hope.
He rushed nosily up the stairs, down the hall, until he arrived outside a rotting wooden door to one of the rooms. He raised his fist and pounded loudly upon it. He waited. His heart was hammering in his chest like a drum and pumping blood through his veins like a hammer beating against metal. His lungs heaved, expanding and compressing like billows. His soul was burning with anxiety, and hope, and joy, and fear all at once. His gut was contracting so violently, he felt that he might throw up. He could wait for only a few seconds. He knocked on the door again, even louder this time. When no answer came in the next seconds, he grabbed the doorknob and turned it. The door was not locked. He pushed it open and went in.
The room was dark. There was no fire lit in the stove, no candle in the window. Nothing stirred. He entered in, and the only sound he heard was his own footsteps against the moaning floorboards. His heart sunk. His hopes faded into darkness and were replaced by disappointment and grief. "Hello?" he called out into the emptiness. "Is anybody here?" He already knew the answer. This room was small, and there were no places for someone to conceal themselves. No one was present. There was no body in this home. They were gone.
Something clicked behind him.
The noise was soft and would have perhaps gone unnoticed by many; but it was, to this man's ears, like a gunshot, like cannon fire… any of those fateful sounds that promise inevitable death. His body froze. He heart froze, as well. The hair over his body stood up. A chill like ice passed through his flesh, and goose bumps appeared under his skin. At once, he knew this sound. He knew there was someone standing behind him with a loaded gun.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" the scared yet bold voice of an old woman demanded from behind him.
He turned slowly. It is always better to look one's enemy in the eye. At least that way, a man sees death coming before it takes him. Better to see the gun than to feel the bullet and wonder what hit him. Better to look Death in the eye. Make peace with death and with life. Then go with him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the barrel of a gun pointed at his neck.
The woman's arm trembled. Her sweaty hand, old and shriveled with age like the twisted branch of an ancient tree, tightened around her pistol. She felt the trigger with her figure. She prepared herself to pull it if she had to. "Who are you, and what do you want?" she repeated herself. She was breathing deeply, locking her jaw, and bracing herself as if expecting a sudden blow. It seemed that she was more afraid than the man staring into the eye of a gun.
"Madame," the man said softly. He slowly raised his hands into the air to show her that he had no weapons, moving very slowly and carefully as not to startle her with any sudden motion, which might just cause her to pull the trigger. "Please… I do not mean to intrude. I mean no harm."
"Answer my question!" the old woman demanded, jolting the gun in her hand, making the intruder flinch. She was brave, but she was terrified. "Are you a thief!? What are you after, money? There is nothing here that is worth stealing."
"No," he answered without hesitating. "I am not here to steal anything."
"Then, what do you want?" the woman cut him off before he could explain.
"I am only looking for the people who used to live here."
"No body has lived here for years," she barked curtly. "I own this place, and I live here alone."
The man shook his head. "In 1832 a family lived in this room."
"1832!" she exclaimed. "That was three… four years ago!"
"Yes," he confirmed, nodding. His voice was still soft and his manner still gentle—a creature behaving with caution for fear that he would frighten the beast and cause it to attack—but he seemed to be relaxing a bit. He spoke more freely and confidently. He lowered his hands to his sides. The old woman flinched and tightened her grip on her gun, but he did not react. He went on, "Madame, please. Do you know where that family has gone?"
"I've no idea," she snapped. She eyed the stranger with suspicion and distrust. "Why do you want to know, anyhow? Who are they to you?"
He only hesitated for a moment before he answered. "My family."
"Your family!? If that is true, then you ought to know where they have gone."
He nodded and tried to explain, "Yes, madame, but… but we were separated. I have not seen them in many years. Now I need to find them again. Do you have any idea at all where they might have gone?"
She shook her head. "No. I have no idea. They left without a word. They did not even pay their rent. I woke up one morning, and they were gone. I do not even know if they are still in Paris. If they are still in France, in fact! They could be in prison for all I know. The whole lot of 'em." She eyed the stranger skeptically and fearfully, clearly concluding that such a man belonged in prison as well. Perhaps he really was their family.
He listened to her say this and his hopes only drained all the more; his heart sunk deeper into oblivion. He sighed deeply and dropped his gaze to the dusty floor. They were not here. They were gone. He was too late. Now, as he despaired and his spirit faded, as the adrenaline drained form his bloodstream, for the first time, he realized how much pain he was in. It had increased measurelessly from the time when he spoke to the men driving the carriage to now, when he stood panting and breathless in this empty flat. He was exhausted, lightheaded, nauseous… He felt terrible. He was no certain he would not soon collapse to the ground, fainting or vomiting. Yet, he fought to endure.
Damn! He was too late. Now what was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go? Certainly, he had to find her. He would find her. He would not rest until he had found her. Yet he did not even know where to start. Paris was a huge city, and she could have been anywhere within its boarders. In fact, she did not even have to be in Paris. She did not even have to be in France! She could have crossed the sea and been in England! She could have crossed the Atlantic Ocean and been somewhere in the United States of American… God, she could have been anywhere! Still he had to find her. He would find her. He would not rest until he had found her. Yet he did not even know where to start…
He tried to clear his head and his thoughts, which seemed to be starting to blur and jumble together. His head was throbbing. "Forgive me, madame," he said at last, addressing the old woman once more. He would first deal with the problem at hand—the bullet aimed at his skull. Then he would face his greater, his more important, mission. "I will be on my way then."
The elderly woman scrambled out of the way. She steered her gun and kept it aimed precisely at him the entire time he went by. She watched him with fearful and mistrustful eyes and never once let her gaze wander. She watched his every motion, almost expecting him to turn on her abruptly and draw a gun of his own. He did not. So she followed him, but at a safe distance, as he went through the building, descended the stairs, and left. Once he exited, she slammed the door behind him and locked it, both locks. "Sweet Jesus," she gasped aloud as she stood at a window and, peeking out the closed drapes, watched the man disappear into the foggy street. "Where on God's good earth has such a creature come from? He looks like a demon, but behaves like a gentleman. Ah! I do not trust him. The snake is deceptive." She pulled the curtain to conceal the window completely. If the man were to come back, she would be ready for him.
…
He tried to think. Where might they have gone? Anywhere. Nonetheless, he had to start somewhere. So he would start wherever he could think to start. The Café Musain? He would certainly stop by, but he doubted he would find anyone there. It would take an enormous coincident for both of them to decide to visit the place at the same time. It was a café, not an inn. It was not a place people stayed for more than a few hours. He would be astonished to have any luck there. Still, he added it to his list of places to visit. At last it was something.
Where else? He did not know. He was utterly at loss.
His friends! The thought suddenly struck his mind like a thunderbolt from the sky. Of course! Why had he not thought of that sooner? Now it seemed too obvious. It was unlikely the students would still be living in the same flats they occupied when they were studying in college in 1832, but he had nine friends… No, he had seven friends, probably less. Two of them he watched die, many of them he saw wounded, and he did not know who had survived. Yet, he was sure some of them had survived; and he was determined. He would find them. Sooner or later, he was bound to find at least one of them, and then this one would help him find the rest of them… and help him find her. Yes, that was it! That was the answer.
Despite the reckless protest of his body, the overwhelming desire to sit down somewhere and rest for a while, he started off once more. He could not go quickly, but he went nonetheless. He would go to each of his friends' flat and asked whoever was living in it currently if he knew where the previous owner had gone. He would find them. No matter how long it took, he would find them. He would not stop until he did. However, before he showed up at any of their homes, he founding himself standing paralyzed in the street before a building he had not beheld in almost four years.
It is strange. When one is away from his home for so long that he almost forgets what home is. The place where he lived and loved, the place he held dear to his heart, fades from his mind. The ache in his heart fades as well and becomes that spot it once kept becomes cold and numb. His past is no longer tangible, no longer real. It is no more than a distant memory. It is a dream. A fantasy. He lets go. How strange it is when one lets go of something, leaves it behinds, sets it free, knowing that he will never see it again and is at peace to part with it, then finds himself standing before it once more. How is he to respond? What is he to say? What is he to feel? He is unsure what to feel. Is it joy? Is it doubt? Is it merely a hollow feeling of happiness and grief in his stomach? A dull ach in his numb heart as the ice begins to melt around it? It is a memory. It returns to his heart, and it whispers, "I am back. Do you remember?" It is strange. It seems impossible. Like the past, it seems a fantasy. Yet, here he was, standing before the place long ago he said goodbye to and did not plan to behold ever again. Yet, this was it. This was home.
He approached slowly, almost shyly, as if afraid of what the would find in this place, afraid it would disappoint him, afraid it would not be enough, afraid it would be different, afraid it would not be what he remembered, afraid his home would not be the same. Too soon, he stood only a step before this building. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out and touched the wall. It was hard to feel anything beyond the cold and wet, but still he could feel the rough stone beneath his palm. He raised his other hand and put it against the wall, as well. He closed his eyes and leaned against the building, letting his forehead rest against the stone. He breathed deeply. He could smell it, the familiar scent of this place. It smelled the same. This was it, he knew at last. He was really home.
He did not have a key anymore so, walking along the building, he found the window to his room. The shutters, old and rotting, faded by the sun, weathered by the rain, cracked by harsh wind, were shut tightly, concealing the inside of the flat. He pulled them open with his hands but did not yet look into the room beyond. He made a point to keep his eyes elsewhere as he clambered through the opening in the wall. It hurt his wounded body was his muscles flexed, as he pulled himself up into the windowsill, as he ducked through the window… He ignored the pain. He dropped into the room.
His feet met the ground. The first thing he saw was his bare feet on top those dusty floorboards. The wood groaned as the weight of his body fell upon them. The sound was strange and foreign to his ears. It was one he had not heard in a long time. Yet, he remembered it. The moaning of wooden floorboards, a noise so simple, so worthless, so annoying at the most of times, yet to this man now it was like music. It was not merely a noise. It was a memory. It was a joy. This sound met his ears, and for the first time in years his heart began to stir with the joy or reconciliation.
The first thing he saw was the floor, and this floor to him like a sight more beautiful than the vast sea. He recognized it. He recognized those dusty panels. He even recognized the odd patterns and dark rings in the wood. Look! His heart leaped like a young child jumping in excitement and bliss. There still stains in the wood from where he trailed water into his flat so many years ago on that night when… when he first brought her here.
His chest tightened, his throat constricted, and his stomach turned over as he lifted his head. He raised his gaze away from the floor and dared to look around him. God… He was standing in his flat. His home. "My God…" he whispered aloud. The place was untouched. It looked exactly the way he remembered it. The only difference was the layer of dust that had collected over the room, like a fine dusting of snow. His desk, his chair, his book shelf… Even the books were still on their shelves where he left them. It was all still there! He could not believe it was all still there… For the first time, he felt the muscles in his face working to produce a smile. Smiling hurt, but in this moment he did not perceive the pain. For the joy was overpowering.
He found himself standing before his desk, beholding it like sacred shrine. There was still an ink bottle and pen in the corner, loose pieces of paper in a stack, a candle rising out of melted wax. The law book he had been studying in school before the rebellion was still resting on the desk. There was still a folded piece of paper between the pages; he had put it there to mark the place he had last read. A hand moved reluctantly to the book, and his figures brushed its cover. He fingered it lightly for a moment, as if afraid it would burn him if he touched it too heavily. Then his hand slowly sank down over the book and came to rest upon it. His thumb ran up its side, feeling the pages. Without one hand, he opened the book.
He opened it to the place he marked years ago. His gaze fell upon the words on those pages, and like awakening from a dream he suddenly remembered. He had completely forgotten about all of this, these books, these words. None of them mattered anymore, so he forgot. What did he care what the professor told him in class or what needed to be studied to get a law degree? It was all irrelevant. So he forgot. Seeing this now, however, it all came back to him. He remembered the night when he was in his room, sitting by candlelight, and reading this very chapter. Once again, four years later, he read the words at the top of the page: Criminal Justice.
The faint smile on his face faded. His heart darkened, and his expression hardened. He remembered what he learned at university; he could still hear the old man's words clearly in his mind as he lectured the students. When a man was convicted of a crime, he was arrested, he was put on trial, a verdict was reached, a sentence was decided, he went to prison, he served his time, he was released on parole, and that was the end of it. That was ugliest, the most deceiving, the most deliberate lie he ever heard. What was even more disgusting was that once, a long time ago when he read this book and heard these words, he believed it. Now he knew the truth. He witnessed it himself. He lived through it. He survived it. Now he knew that there was nothing in these claims, this book, this fantasy that they called justice. These were nothing but empty words on a blank page. They had no meaning. They held no truth. There was not such a thing as justice, especially not for criminals, not for men.
God is just. Men are not. Justice will be met on the last days of the earth but not before.
He closed the book. He turned his back to the desk and looked around his home once more. The door across the flat was slightly ajar, as it usually was, and he could see only a corner of the dark room beyond. He approached feeling that there were two invisible forces working upon him at once, one commanding him forward and the other holding him back. Yet, his legs managed to carry him forward. When he reached the door, he touched it lightly with his figure tips and pushed it open. It creaked softly as it turned on stiff hinges. Unfolding before him, he saw his bedroom.
The room was dark, but by the dim light that fell through the closed curtain he could still see. He saw his bed pushed against one wall. The sheets were cold now—one glance and it could be known that no one had slept in this bed for a very long time—but they were not neatly made, as one might have expected. The blanket was ruffled and the sheets thrown messily over the mattress. That was how she left it four years ago.
He never saw her awake that morning; so he could only image the pain, the horror, she felt when she opened her eyes to learn that he was already gone. He was no longer beside her. He already left. He had awoken early in the morning, lying beside her in bed, entwined in her arms, entangled in her body, she was still asleep against him, buried on his chest, and she was clinging to him mercilessly as if trying to hold him down, trying to prevent him from leaving. He carefully disencumbered himself from her grasp and got up quietly, taking care not to wake her. He got dressed in silence, gathered up his things, and prepared to go. Before he left the flat, he looked into the room and gazed sadly and longingly at her sleeping form. She looked so beautiful when she slept, so peaceful. A sleeping angel. He stood there for a long time, just watching her, regretting his decision to leave her, almost changing his mind. He considered waking her up and saying goodbye. He knew she would want him to. It would break her heart that he left without saying goodbye. But goodbye is too painful. It would not make anything better but only make things worse. So he approached the bed slowly, bent over her, tenderly stroked her hair out of her face, and gently kissed her forehead. "Goodbye," he whispered. "I love you." Then he left.
He was not there when she awoke later that morning. She was devastated to find he had already left her. Shocked, stunned, hardly able to believe what she saw before her eyes, she leaped out of bed and ran through the flat calling his name. He did not answer. He was really gone. She acted immediately and certainly. Before she even decided what she was going to do, she had made up her mind. It was as if she had planned it out, but she had not. She acted on instinct. She rushed back into his room, opened his wardrobe, stripped herself of her garments leaving them on the floor, dressed herself in his clothing, disguised herself under a high coat and a low hat, and she left the flat in the attire of a man. She did not have time to make the bed.
Turning, he saw the door of his wardrobe was still half open. He went to it and pulled the door ajar. There before him were all of his old garments: his coats hanging, his shirts folded in one drawer, his trousers on another… What came as a blow even more powerful, however, was the smell. Did he really used to smell like that? He never realized it. Yet when he opened his wardrobe now, the scent pervaded his sinuses and images like a vision invaded his mind. It was strong and it was clear. Had his eyes been closed, he wound have thought himself in the Café Musain.
He shut the door. He trapped the scent inside the wardrobe and shook the memories out of his head. As soon as he turned away, however, he was faced by a new memory, a memory more painful still. Her nightgown was still sprawled on the floor where she left them years ago. "God…" he whispered aloud this time. He went to it, as if pulled by a gravitational force, and kneeled down. His hands trembled as he reached out and took the white gown into his grasp. The garment was cold his to touch. Her warmth had faded from the cloth long ago. Yet, staring at it now, he could see her clearly in his mind: her white gown, her dark hair, her warm brown eyes, her beautiful face... Although he knew it was nothing, only a scrap of clothing, and although he knew its presence meant nothing, he could not help but fell his heart stirring, warming in hope and aching in sorrow at the same time. Determination and passion set his soul ablaze. I have to find her, he swore to himself again. I will find her. I will not stop until I do.
He stood still clutching the white gown in his hands, unwilling to let go of it. Somehow, it would be like letting go of her. For now, this was the only bit of her he had to cling on to. He would cling onto it.
He looked around the room for only a moment longer. This place was the same as it had always been. It was the same as it was when he left it. It was untouched. It had not changed at all. Only he had changed. He had changed so. He was not even the same man. When he lived here, he was a boy. Now he was a man, and he was a different person. The boy was gone, and this man was left behind. He was changed. And there was nothing left for him here.
Just when he made to leave, he caught a glimpse of something move across the room. He turned back with a start. His heart fell. It plummeted through nothingness. Only briefly. It hit the bottom. It came stopped in his gut. He found himself staring into the face of the most hideous creature he had ever laid eyes upon. Not only was he ugly, but he was terrifying. Looking at him made one want to look away, want to run, made his heart shutter, his insides churn, made him nauseous and sickened. To behold such a creature was like standing in the presence of the Devil. He did not recognize this man. He did not know him.
His own reflection in a dusty mirror.
He felt like the whole room was closing in on him. The whole world was falling over him. It was hard to breathe. His body was getting weak. He could not comprehend what he saw. Was that even real!? Was that really him!? He knew it was bad, but… but not that bad… It was no wonder those men in the carriage did not want to give him a ride.
For a moment, he could hear himself breathing, deeply and heavily; he could feel his heart pounding in his veins; and he could only stare in shock at what he saw. He looked away from the mirror, and his heart hardened once more. The stone shield resumed its place over his soul. This shield was impenetrable. It guarded him from emotion and from weakness, and he was unable to feel anything.
It did not matter. It did not matter what he looked like. It did not matter that he looked like a monster. It did not matter that his body was utterly and completely ruined. It did not matter that she would not even recognize him when he found her. He would find her, and once he told her who he was, she would remember him. Once he was with her again, nothing else would matter. He was horrible to look at, but she would look past that, and she would love him anyway. So it did not matter. In the end, it would be not matter. It would alright.
He told himself this, he told himself it did not matter, but, even as he did so, he found himself opening his wardrobe again. He found a black coat and, despite the pain, got it over his body. He buttoned it completely, so his chest was no longer visible. It took longer than usual to button his coat using his left hand, but he scarified the time. He fumbled with a black cravat for a while, thinking it better to cover his neck, but he was unable to tie it. It was too difficult to move his figures and too painful to use his right hand. In the end, he tossed the cravat aside. The coat would do.
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror another time before he decided to go. He did not look quite so gruesome now that his chest was hidden, but the improvement in his appearance was minimal. His face was the most repulsive of all, and it was still displayed for all to see. If he had a mask, he would have put it on. He did not. So he sighed and left his bedroom. At least, the weather was bleak today and few people were in the street. The fog would be his mask.
He took a hidden key out of the drawer in his desk and slipped it into his coat pocket. He retrieved his wallet, which he had hid carefully under the mattress of his bed the night before the uprising, and found that all of his money was still safely inside. He put the loose money in his pocket into his wallet and pocketed that as well. Then, he left his flat and started down the hall. He ignored everything around him as he went down the hall and headed for the exit. His mind was focused elsewhere. He was almost at the door when someone cried out.
"Who the hell are you, and what in God's name are you doing here!?"
Startled by the voice, he turned. There was a man standing behind him but at some distance—in fact, he seemed to be taking great care to keep his distance. In both of his stiff hands he grasped a large kitchen knife, and he held it out in front of him an inexperienced peasant attempting to wield a sword.
"Monsieur Aragon," he replied calmly.
This only seemed to frighten the man greater. "How do you know who I am!?" he demanded in accusation and horror, as if he expected the answer to be a plot to assassinate him.
He sighed, disappointed but not surprised by this response. "Monsieur, you know who I am as well. Do you not remember me?"
"I do not know you! I have never seen you before in my life!" Surely, if he had seen this creature before, he would have remembered him. This was not a face that could be easily forgotten. The sight of it would torment his mind through the day and haunt him in his nightmares through the night.
He shook his head. "I live here."
"Now you have been caught in a lie! I own this place, and I have owned it for over fifteen years! I know every man and woman who ever lived here. I know them each by name! And I know for certain I have never seen you before! You do not live here." He slashed his knife threateningly through the air, as if the blade could somehow scratch the intruder from across the room. "No more lies! Who are you, and what do you want?"
"Monsieur, please… Just listen to me. That is all I ask."
Aragon hesitated for a minute. How could he trust a word from this intruder's mouth, this intruder who he had already caught lying once? Yet, what harm was there in listening? He let out a frustrated sigh, and snapped, "Hurry then! Make it fast. I am listening."
"A student used to live here in the flat at the end of the hall. Room number 5. However, that room has been empty for the last four years. On June 5 of 1832, the student left one morning and did not return. He disappeared without a word. Perhaps, you presumed him dead, and you were justified in believing so. There was a rebellion in Paris that day, and many young citizens of France lost their lives. Yet that is false. I tell you now, Monsieur Aragon, that student did not die."
He sighed and shook his head. He looked away from the man and gazed across the room with the empty stare of a soldier, of a convict, of a dead man. It was the stare of a man whose life had gone to waste and who had lost everything, who was now looking back on those joyous blessing that used to be his. He spoke softly, "A long time ago… that student was me."